The Styx

by Jonathon King

  “That was one scared woman you brought us, Third Base,” he said. “An’ I swear she done curled up on one of the chillin’s beds and was up to nightmares that wouldn’t let her close her eyes.

  “Tina and I thought we could get the word out to folks up the line in Titusville an’ then to Georgia and get her movin’ in a few days but then Thomas and the boys heard the sheriff an’ his deputies were slap askin’ every Negro in town if they seen her.”

  “An’ I ain’t tell ’em nothin’ daddy!” came a shout in a child’s voice from behind the curtain. “If they smack me all day I ain’t tell ’em nothin’.”

  “Ya’ll hush up, Thomas, an’ go to sleep,” Mr. Claude said, raising his voice though his anger was only half there.

  “Now you know we ain’t scared off by such,” he continued. “We been through it before. When a brother of mine come by and offered to get Mizz Shantice down to Miami on the train and then on a boat to New York City, I was certain he had the connections to get it done.

  “We dressed her up in men’s clothing for some disguise. The brother give her a wad a’ money an’ off she went. First I heard of her being caught was you just now tellin’ me.”

  Mr. Claude had been succinct in his explanation, leaving few questions to be asked. The table went quiet. His wife came into the room with a coffee pot and four cups and poured. Byrne sat back in his chair and sipped the coffee but was alarmed by the taste and had to control his face not to show displeasure. But Mr. Claude noticed.

  “I apologize we don’t have no real coffee. That’s just made up of parched corn, sir. But you can add you some sugar and it’s all right.”

  His wife set a small china bowl of sugar in the middle of the table and Byrne allowed himself a pinch. As they all drank he was again drawn by the colors of the rug and then spotted an insect the size of a man’s finger that he’d already been told was called a Palmetto bug. The thing sneaked in from some dark corner, perhaps drawn by the smell of sugar in the air. Byrne watched it scuttle across the floor toward the table. And he noticed for the first time that all four table legs were set down into open tin cans. The bug climbed up the side of the can and then down inside. Byrne waited for it to emerge on the wooden leg and continue its way up but the thing never came out.

  “It’s the kerosene, sir,” Tina Wilson said. She too had been watching the bug and the strange white man in her home at the same time. “The cans are half-filled with kerosene and it kills ’em dead ’fo they can get up to the table. Onliest way to stop the insects in Florida they eat you out of house and home.”

  Marjory gathered her skirts around her. All the rest in the room returned to the discussion.

  “Did Mizz Carver describe for you what occurred on the night of the fire?” Marjory said, keeping her voice neutral. “That is, who she saw, if anyone at all?”

  “Like I said, she was awful scared,” Mr. Claude reiterated. “Said only that she found a dead white man and just repeatin’ it made her even more scared.”

  “You say you know this brother and trusted him,” Santos said. “Do I know him?”

  “I don’t suppose you do, Third Base,” Mr. Claude said. “He’s a white man, a Mason like me.” Claude raised his left hand to show the Masonic ring on his finger, the emblem was too small for Byrne to see but he knew what it looked like.

  “You know this brother’s name?” Santos said.

  Mr. Claude hesitated and looked at his wife.

  Byrne cut in: “Is he an older man, white hair and goatee, tends toward frock coats and polished boots and a show-off hat?”

  “You know him,” Mr. Claude said, a statement, not a question.

  “Yes. Amadeus Faustus. I was fishing with him yesterday.”

  “Yeah, he do like goin’ out on the sea an catchin’ them big fish,” Mr. Claude said. “But he don’t never bring none back to eat. I never did understand it.”

  Byrne turned to the others.

  “I can talk with Faustus. I’m due to meet with him tomorrow.”

  They all got up to leave. Marjory had left her coffee barely touched. Mr. Claude was in despair as he stood on his porch. In his experience, little good could come of the situation, unless someone intervened, and that meant someone of standing and wealth and very white skin.

  “Will you be able to help her, Miss McAdams?” he said, the tone almost pleading, which was something that did not come easy to the man’s voice.

  “We will try,” McAdams said. She stepped closer and touched her cheek to the old black man’s. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The three of them walked again in the glow of the lantern. They crossed the field, each keeping their own counsel.

  Byrne finally broke the silence.

  “Interesting fellow,” he said to no one in particular but then to Santos: “What was that Third Base all about?”

  “Baseball,” Santos said.

  “Ah.” Byrne was familiar with the game. He’d heard stories of the New York Giants, but had only seen the Italians play near Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral near Mott and Prince Streets. He’d never seen a Negro man play.

  “Mr. Santos is the best player on the hotel’s seasonal baseball team and is most likely the finest third baseman in the world,” Marjory said, an actual touch of pride in her voice.

  “Some of the fans like Mr. Claude just call me Third Base,” Santos said. “They know we have to use Cuban names to play on the team an’ it’s like slave names to them. They know it ain’t real so they give us a nickname.”

  Where each of their thoughts went from there was a secret. No one spoke until they reached the carriage. McAdams climbed up into the seat. “I’m not sure we accomplished a damned thing.”

  “Did you expect to? Other than relieving your anger?” Byrne answered and was immediately sorry he’d spoken his mind.

  Marjory held her tongue for long moment. “No, I suppose not,” she finally said. “Though it’s never a bad tactic to do some intelligence gathering.”

  Touché,” Byrne said, thinking of his conversation with Sergeant Harris.

  “Ah, French, Mr. Byrne?” McAdams said. “Shall we now pardon you?”

  “Hell no,” he said, his smile matching hers in the flicker of flame.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE image floated up in his dreams all night: Marjory, her white dress dusted with dirt and torn to the calf but still swirling in the ocean breeze as she stood outside the Poinciana. Her hair was damp from sweat, tendrils pasted against her neck. Her eyes, the greenness now visible in the light of the hotel, tired from the journey, but still holding a glow that told you her passion was part of her, awaiting a challenge.

  She had sent Santos away after they arrived back at the ball, which had long since wound down. They were at the south entrance and stood away from the porches, she being wary of being seen in such disarray. Byrne offered to walk her to the Breakers, but she declined with that hint of stubbornness in her voice that kept him from insisting. He repeated that he would find Faustus in the morning, but first had to explain himself to his Pinkerton sergeant.

  “You made a selfless sacrifice tonight, Michael Byrne,” she’d said. “Interesting.”

  She’d stepped forward and put her cheek next to his just as she had done with Mr. Claude, but Byrne could not imagine the old man having the same reaction as his. Despite the evening’s trials he could smell the lavender, warm lavender, rising up from her skin and her cheek felt as smooth as a whisper.

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned and walked east toward the ocean. Maybe he’d closed his eyes at that instant, but the same image had come to him every time he woke during the night and was with him now.

  He rose from his bed in the Seminole Hotel and washed in the basin. He’d hung his new clothes from last night on the closet door, dirt halfway up the legs of the trousers, which were also peppered with tiny brambles that were spiked and painful to pick away. The shirt was no longer white, though he hadn’t lost a button during the entire a
dventure. His coat, which he’d draped across his arm or tossed in the carriage, was the only part of his forty-dollar purchase that had somewhat survived. After being chewed out by Harris last night for leaving his post and chasing “your bloody intelligence” he wished he’d kept the money he’d spent as he might need it when he became unemployed. Harris had only calmed a bit when Byrne described how he’d escorted Mr. McAdams’ daughter and had indeed been forced to step in and prevent a physical altercation between her and the sheriff.

  “With your magic wand?” Harris said, that twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth.

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, what I’d of paid to see that fat bastard’s eyes when that came out.”

  Byrne was gruffly dismissed and warned to be available in the morning.

  The recollection now caused him to dress quickly and head downstairs to breakfast. Having tasted, with admiration and appetite, scrambled turtle eggs and ham with cornbread, Byrne headed out on to the street in search of Faustus. The old man had nearly promised to find Danny, hadn’t he? Last night’s shenanigans aside, it was time to find his brother.

  The air was dead still outside, not a breeze from the ocean. Byrne started for the docks first, walking south along the lakefront; the water was silent, stretching out like a hot pane of glass. In the distance he could see a sharpie, its sails hanging limp and useless, the boat seemingly stuck in the calm a hundred feet from shore like a tired wagon with its wheels plunged solid into mud.

  When he got to the docks he spotted Captain Abbott sitting on a crate mending a net.

  “Ain’t seen ’im,” was his answer. “It’s no day for fishin’ less you want to shore cast and hell, it ain’t worth it anymore. Hell, the fishin’ here has all but dried up what with all these tourists. We’ll be lucky to have a fish in Florida in another ten years.”

  Grumpy old man, Byrne thought.

  “Where might I find Mr. Faustus on a day such as this, then?”

  “Two places.” Captain Abbott did not look up. “Watchin’ ’em dig holes on that plot of land of his on Clematis, or drinkin’ beer at the tavern cross the street. Course why a man would drink that swill instead of God’s own elixir of rum from the islands is beyond me.”

  Byrne left Abbott to his grumbling. The captain was correct on where best to find Faustus. As Byrne approached Olive Street along Clematis, he spotted the man standing in front of a cleared piece of land watching brick masons working a line of about fifty feet. Survey string mapped out the rest of the foundation that ran some sixty feet deep into the plot. Faustus was leaning on his cane and dressed as if he’d attended his own shabby ball the night before: his top hat was tipped to shade his eyes and his tailed jacket and trousers were again of a fine but faded cloth.

  “Mr. Faustus, good morning, sir,” Byrne said.

  “Ahh, Mr. Byrne. I trust a fine evening was had by all at the Flagler’s welcome home ball in the palace?”

  Byrne let the greeting sit, considered his tactics then decided to hell with being polite or patient.

  “Have you obtained the whereabouts of my brother, Mr. Faustus? I am anxious to find him.”

  Faustus stared ahead at the work before him. The fact that the old man would not meet his eyes sent a shiver of dread through Byrne. It was well-known body language on the street—a man who will not look you in the eye is either hiding bad news or lying to you.

  “In due time, young man. In due time,” Faustus finally said. “First tell me of your exploits of last night. Rumor is abounding.”

  Byrne fought back an anger that was rising in him. Was Faustus playing him for some reason? Maybe he had no information about Danny. Maybe he was just keeping Byrne on the hook like one of his fish, enjoying some game.

  Well, if he wanted games: “All had a good night I’m sure with the exception of Shantice Carver and of course Mr. Claude Augustus Wilson, who probably did not enjoy being awakened in the middle of the night.”

  Byrne watched the names register on Faustus’ profile. The old man seemed to work the angles in his own head.

  “Yes, well. We did try with Mizz Carver. Unfortunately, despite our efforts to sneak her aboard a ship going north, she was obviously apprehended.

  “But also obvious is your knowledge of the occurrence,” he added, “which does surprise me. I’ve not yet heard from my dear friend Mr. Claude, but you have done some diligence. Congratulations.”

  It was now Byrne who watched the brick-layers, slapping and tapping the stones into place in front of them.

  “Masons building a Masonic Temple?” Byrne said, and this time the statement turned Faustus’ head around.

  “You are indeed an extraordinarily informed and perceptive young man, Mr. Byrne. You continue to impress. Yes, this will be the location of the first temple to be built in this region of Florida. And we will need men of strong moral fiber and dignity to fill her, sir.

  “They will be men who voluntarily ask to join and they will be accepted because they were good men who believe in God and hold high ethical and moral ideals. It will be a place to learn and to teach what friendship, morality, and truth really involve, and to practice on a small scale the reality of brotherhood.”

  If it was an invitation to join Faustus’ group, Byrne ignored it. He knew nothing of the organization and had more pressing concerns.

  “Do you know where my brother is or do you not?”

  Faustus seemed to think about the question for a moment.

  “Floridians do not stand out in the sun for nothing, Mr. Byrne. May I buy you a chilled beer?”

  It was nine o’clock when they walked into the Midway Plaisance, and before Faustus made the distance between the door and the bar rail, a pint of beer was standing and waiting.

  “Morning, Mr. Faustus,” said the woman behind the bar. “Hot already, eh sir?”

  “Indeed, Miss Graham. A draft for my friend here if you please.” It was unusual to see a woman tending bar, but considering the hour, Byrne dismissed the propriety and motioned for a beer of his own.

  Whatever the beliefs of Faustus’ brotherhood of Masons, Byrne was glad they didn’t include abstinence. The draft was as excellent as the first time he’d drunk it here with the binder boys. After taking a few swallows, Byrne decided that his approach with Faustus on the street had perhaps too disingenuous. He changed it.

  “I’m no lawyer, sir, but it seems to me that there are some inquiries to be made about this incident of the man killed during a fire on the island. I mean, there are folks who say this Carver woman was not even there at the time of the man’s death.”

  Faustus took a drink and made perhaps the same decision on candor as Byrne had.

  “And you come across this information from which folks, Mr. Byrne? Miss McAdams from the hotel?”

  Byrne gave up trying to plumb the breadth of Faustus’ connections to information.

  “Yes. And some of the hotel workers who are in position to know.”

  “And therein lies the problem, Mr. Byrne,” Faustus said. “As a Northerner, you may not understand the ancient mores that still hold this land and the law that still governs it. The sheriff is not a forward thinking Southern man. If a Negro woman has been accused of killing a white man it would be a foregone conclusion that she is not only guilty, but should in all practicality be hanged for such offense.”

  Byrne had seen enough on the streets of New York to know that neighborhoods of Greeks, Italians, Poles and Jews operated on their own laws and precepts just like anywhere else. The “we deal with our own” attitude was one that the police had always worked both with and against to keep a lid on crime and to protect the moneyed civilians of the city. But even in a frontier like this he believed logic could still prevail.

  “So let’s prove she didn’t do it. Certainly that doesn’t get ignored in a place that’s trying to become civilized.”

  Faustus took another silent drink. He wiped away the residual foam.

  “Let us?” he said. �
�Did you use the contraction ‘let’s’ as in you and I, Mr. Byrne?”

  Byrne took a breath. “From my understanding, you are a lawyer, sir. And from your mouth to my ear you have admitted a medical background. And from my observation you also know most of the prominent people in this small town. So unless I’m a fool, I’d bet you know the coroner and you know how to do a basic autopsy and there is no better way to find out how a man was killed than to look for yourself.”

  If he’d read Faustus correctly, the old man was avoiding some knowledge of his brother. An uncomfortable knowledge. Maybe a terrible knowledge. Maybe a knowledge that now lay in the coroner’s office.

  Faustus absorbed the young man’s challenge. “A fine presentation, Mr. Byrne,” he said, draining his glass and spilling a few coins on the bar. He stood up and with cane in hand motioned to the front door. “Let us.”

  The undertaker’s was on Clematis in a low-slung wooden building with a tin roof and double-wide doors in the front. There were sawed out places in the front wall for windows, but any view was blocked by paper hung from the inside. Wagon tracks led from the street to the back.

  Faustus knocked at the door and without waiting for an answer walked in as if it were a storefront, which in effect, it was. George Maltby made his living by burying local folks, preparing the bodies of nonlocals for transportation north to their hometowns, and on occasion doing contract work for the county government, including holding the unclaimed bodies of victims of crime until given the order to move them either into the ground or to a family claimant.

  When Byrne stepped into the building he noted that it was unnaturally cool. He was to learn later that the undertaker’s building was directly behind the G. G. Springer’s Ice Making Factory. Maltby had talked Springer into running a duct into the back of his place. The decision pleased both men as it kept down the odor of Maltby’s particular business from passersby as well as from Springer’s customers who came to load their own ice blocks from his factory’s back door. But when he first walked in, Byrne took the chill as a sign of death and it unnerved him. The room was, like many of its day, a single square structure. But this one was halved by a plush, purple curtain like that of a Broadway stage. When Faustus called out Maltby’s name, a plump and unusually jovial man swept away the corner of the curtain and stepped out like some master of ceremony for the Herald Square Theater in the Bowery.